


Gestures

by shomarus



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: F/F, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13681587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shomarus/pseuds/shomarus
Summary: Carol has a secret admirer.





	Gestures

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine’s!!! i still love these girls :’)
> 
> thank you for reading!!

“Oh, hey! Carol, someone left a note for you last night.”

The bag is lowered onto the counter, and Carol turns to look at Abby. She’s holding up a small pink card and from where Carol stands, she can make out red embellishments on the ends. “Really now? Well, I suppose that shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise. You read it?” she asks, though she is not in a rush to see it. She’s seen her fair share of love letters over the years and has found that each one is more of less the same. In any case, Carol already has someone she’s pining for.

“Oh yeah—poor lad has it bad.” Abby shakes the card and slaps it down on her desk for Carol to pick up. “Such an overuse of prose; it’d be cute if it wasn’t so pathetic, hey? Still, I don’t know why it is _you’re_ the one getting all the special attention. Actually, scratch that, I know exactly why, but I’m going to brood over it anyway,” and though she says that, she’s cracking a wicked grin. Carol, just as prone to Abby’s inanity, feels her own mouth split into a smile.

Carol picks up the note, a nice square of card paper with very intricate cursive written in fountain pen. “Damn fancy looking note,” she remarks, turning it over. The ink is written in silver, glittering in the light, and Carol snorts; ornate lettering for a sorely lost cause. But then again, it’s not like Carol hasn’t seen anything like this in the past.

_To my darling Carol,_

_It is criminal to me that nobody seems to appreciate your presence enough. That when you walk into a room, everyone’s gaze lingers on you for just a few seconds longer, that you smile, even the bulbs are outshone. Even now, I imagine you gaze upon these words boredly. Or perhaps you think me silly, a grin curling those lips I wish to touch with my own. It is not just your looks that put me in a dither, but the way you see the world, your personality, your words. When I think of you, I imagine an utterance of affections, a thousand shimmering lights, thorns of a rose and the flame that is alight in my own heart.  
I wonder if perhaps one day you will write that you feel the same?_

_\- A very secret admirer._

It’s embarrassing, almost. Carol folds the note and stuffs it into her bag, into some far-off corner where she can eventually present it to the man who’s given it to her. “Huh,” she says to an expectant Abby. “And you’ve got a glimpse of him, you say?”

“Yeah, handed it right off to me,” Abby says, far more entertained than Carol thinks she has the right to be. She does this every year with every letter and Carol knows she will have to quickly repeat over and over that she has no interest.

“What’d he look like?” If it’s someone that Carol knows, then perhaps she can glean at least an inkling of who the fellow may be, but the moment the question comes from her mouth she realizes that it’s a lost cause.

Abby understands it as well. “Uh, I don’t know. Brown hair? Kinda short, looked sure of himself. You know I’m not cultured, Carol. Describing people with all these fancy terms and such? Not my thing.” Though she doesn’t look particularly sorry for it.

“Alright, did he say anything to you? Who he is, perhaps? That would be particularly nice to know.”

“No, nothing.” Abby shrugs. “Oh, except that he has more things to leave you.”

 

 

When Carol returns home from work the very next day, she is surprised to see a heart-shaped box laying out in front of her apartment door. She doesn’t think anything of it, until she notices the cardstock attached to the front. Carol stops to bend over and examine the box; chocolates, perhaps. It’s the shame shade of pink as it’d been yesterday with the same red embellishment. A similarly pink bow ties the box closed, and she of course she catches the silvery glint of her name.

_Chocolates from Switzerland, the way they should be made. Don’t you agree? If you were curious, I’m not sulking around your apartment. You’ll meet with me soon! Are you excited?_

_\- A very secret admirer._

Is this the part where it starts to get creepy, or endearing, or perhaps the fatal combination of both? Carol opens the door and brings the chocolates inside; she’ll share with Therese, perhaps, but would that be wrong? It’s not as though her ‘secret admirer’ would know, much less care. She sets the chocolates down on the table, undoes her coat and hangs it off a chair.

It will be awkward, rejecting the poor guy and not even really having much of a reason for doing so. She’s divorced and single—to a majority of the populace, she supposes. Therese is just a friend she took in after her husband’s tragic death, and Carol is a sad divorcee who’s in need of another strong, overtly dominant man to love. The thought makes her feel silly.

Though she will admit that she’s curious. About what he’ll pull tomorrow, sure, but his identity is what Carol desires to know the most.

 

 

It is Therese who hands off the next gift.

“Look what I found!” Therese steps in and Carol is about to ask what she’s doing handing off her Valentine’s gift so early. But then there’s that pink label on the front. Therese’s artistry must have rubbed off on her in recent years—she’s beginning to think of that pink as a very particular milk pink.

Carol frowns, “You don’t mind?” It’s a bouquet of roses, cliche in the best of ways, though it loses its charms when it comes from a relative stranger.

“Of course I mind,” Therese retorts, shoving the flowers in Carol’s face. Carol awkwardly brings the bouquet into the kitchen. It’s convenient because she has a free vase around the apartment _somewhere_ , but she is not necessarily pleased about it. “But what are we gonna do about it? What am I supposed to say? That I’m romantically involved with you, and ruin our social lives like that? How I wish I could, but it’s unseemly for us.”

“Did he leave a note again?” Carol asks. Therese leans against the table with a sigh.

“Yeah.”

God, Carol thinks. Of course he did. “The worst part is that I don’t even know who he is, so I can’t ask him to stop leaving these for me. No, I take it back— _that’s_ the worst part. It just has to be someone I know, right? Otherwise he wouldn’t know where to leave these.” Carol pushes back hair that had fallen in front of her face, feeling only vaguely frustrated with the whole situation. It might have been simple amusement at first, and now it’s like damn detective work trying to rule out leads. Call her a gumshoe trained in the span of a week and a gumshoe willing to quit in the span of three days.

Now Therese smiles, shaking her head. “I’m not _that_  bothered about it. The chocolates were nice, at least.” She pulls a note out of her pocket. Carol takes it from her and reads.

And instead of sentences, admissions of love, it’s a simple handful of words.

_Tomorrow, I’ll be waiting for you. At three._

“When I get off work,” Carol says with a sigh. “So this is _definitely_ someone I know. If this is Abby’s way of fucking with me and you’re playing along, I swear.”

“It’s not Abby!” Therese says with a laugh. “It’s not like everything weird that happens is a result of her trying to play pranks on you. She has a little more tact than _that_ , I’d imagine.”

“Sure feels like it,” Carol responds. “But you’re right, Abigail wouldn’t pull _this_ kind of a joke on me. I trust you more than I trust her, certainly, and if _you’re_ telling me it’s not her…”

She smiles. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow, now won’t we?”

 

 

It’s not like she’s sure how she manages to actually do it, but Carol forgets all about the note until she’s actually walking down the front steps.

There’s nobody outside at first, and though part of her says that she should just leave, because that’d _really_ get the message across, she finds that she just can’t. Therese knows about the note, so it’s not like she has to call to let her know that she’ll be late coming home either. Not even that late, just a little late.

Because she was going to politely decline this guy. But for the three days she’s had, she still can’t quite think of a justifiable reason for rejection. A simple ‘I’m not interested’ _might_ do the trick, but Carol knows that some people just can’t quite seem to understand a simple three words.

She is lost in her thoughts to the point that she only barely feels the hand on her shoulder.

Carol jumps and turns around to meet the eyes of her admirer, and though she expects to be looking up at an artsy-looking lad, she’s looking down.

At none other than Therese.

“You know,” Carol begins, but only after Therese’s lips split into the most ridiculous smile, “I can’t help but to berate myself for not seeing this sooner.”

“It wasn’t Abby at least?” Therese offers. Carol makes note of the tiny box in her spindly fingers. If these awful Manhattan streets weren’t so damned _busy_ on Valentine’s day, then Carol might have kissed her then and there. If for no reason than to shut her up.

“She played along!” Carol says indignantly, though she’s smiling all the same.

Therese offers the box out to her. “Yeah, yeah. Happy Valentine’s day, you Debbie downer.” Carol accepts the box and Therese, impatiently giddy, ushers her to sit on one of the nearby benches—one that isn’t already occupied by an all-too-happy couple.

“You’ve gone all out, haven’t you?” Carol almost feels bad; the meager makeup set she’d caught in the stores pales in comparison to such a display of grandeur. Carol makes a show of opening the box, carefully picking the wrapping paper until Therese leans against her side with a carefree laugh.

Inside lays a small necklace that sparkles in light. Carol holds it up to the sun and gasps. “My! All out indeed!”

Therese looks sheepish now, shrugging her shoulders as though it’s no big deal. But Carol, knowing Therese and Therese knowing Carol, they both know that expensive gifts like these are costly for her. Therese doesn’t quite make enough to support the both of them, not quite yet. And still, when it comes to Carol, Therese seems so willing to throw that money away in an instant.

“What do you think?” Therese asks finally. “I could help you put it on, if you wished. Oh, but it’s cold and I wouldn’t ask you to take your scarf off.” Now she seems so hesitant, so unsure. It only serves to endear her, for Carol to fall just that little bit deeper.

The scarf comes off with just a single tug. “Put it on,” Carol says with an encouraging smile smile. So Therese takes the necklace and Carol turns to the side. She can feel the light ghostings of cold fingers brushing against her neck and Carol feels happy, warm.

Therese pulls back for a moment and holds her scarf back to her. “And how does it look?” Carol asks expectantly, flipping her hair for theatrics. Therese giggles in turn, and no matter how many times Carol hears it, she’s always left feeling as though she’ll implode under the weight of sheer adoration.

“It’s nice. You like it, of course?”

Carol wishes she could sneak in a kiss. At home, she decides promptly. “Not quite as much as I like you.”

Therese shakes her head, “Unbelievable!”


End file.
